Lazy Dadurday

"What do you guys want for breakfast?" I ask my three pajama-wearing kids flopped sleepily over two couches on a promising Saturday morning. They’re with me every Saturday morning as part of a divorce agreement. We call it "Lazy Dadurday." And lazy it is. We wake up late, then trek to the bookstore, the pet store, the mall, or the pool, and just let it all hang out.

"What is there?" the kids ask absent-mindedly.

My children have faced the same breakfast choices since they were old enough to chew: frozen waffles, cereal, and toast. No more and no less. It's their version of death and taxes. Nonetheless, the sweetly inquisitive response — what is there? — is always the same.

It's as if they'd been replaced overnight with benevolent alien imposters who'd carefully studied everything about us but our breakfast rituals.